


Tempered is this Steel

by silvercolour



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is hurt by the presence of a holy sword but Aziraphale is there for him, Cuddles, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No beta only fic, Post-Canon, Self-Esteem Issues, emotional catharsis, swordtember fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26378470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvercolour/pseuds/silvercolour
Summary: Crowley was very bored. Almost bored enough to just go to sleep and not wake up until he could do something fun again. But only almost. So when Aziraphale suggested they go to the new exhibit on holy swords at the museum, Crowley agreed to come with.He should, perhaps, have known better.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 106
Collections: Silver's swordtember fills





	Tempered is this Steel

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the poem Sword of Love by Jay Aguiniga, part of which is also quoted at the beginning of the fic.
> 
> Written for the swordtember prompt “divine relic”, which unsurprisingly isn’t something Crowley likes. The other fills for swordtember can be found in the collection, as well as posted to my tumblr @silver-colour.
> 
> PLEASE mind the tags on this fic! Crowley has a few bad thoughts about self-worth, although Aziraphale is there to tell him he is loved. This is hurt AND comfort, after all.

_The edge knifelike sharp,  
but tang is of the other side.  
Guard set, for protection  
of its sharpness contrast. _

* * *

  
The day had been rainy, and Crowley had been incredibly bored. Almost bored enough to just go to sleep and not wake up until he could do something _fun_ again. But only almost. So when Aziraphale had suggested they go to the new exhibit on holy swords from around the world at the British Museum, Crowley had agreed to come with.

Part of the reason he agreed was because _obviously_ people needed to keep a better eye on their magic swords. If the BM could fill a whole exhibit with these swords, _someone_ (punctuated by a glance over his glasses at Aziraphale) must be doing something wrong.

At Crowley’s dig Aziraphale had huffed, and pointed out that _his_ sword had been there when they needed it, and wasn’t that the important part?

Crowley supposed it was.

So here they were, in the museum, about to go see some rusty old pieces of metal that people had decided to decorate and venerate.

Aziraphale had then managed to stumble across a staff member at the museum who visited his shop frequently (as frequent as any visitor could be, given the shop's highly _in_ frequent opening hours; therefore, she was only a rare visitor). The lady had insisted on showing them around the new exhibit, and was happily babbling at Aziraphale about each new sword.

Crowley had decided to leave them be, and was walking the exhibit in the opposite direction to the one the big signposts tried to suggest. The exhibit had definitely saved the best for last, which unfortunately meant he’d seen the best things first. 

Why anyone should worship a sword Crowley had no idea. Violent things, they were, with only a single purpose. Humans had so much intelligence, so much creativity, surely there were more interesting things to exhibit than _swords_? Still, their decorations were well-made, and at least their supposedly-sacred purposes meant that most of these swords had not been used for their single, bloody-minded purpose.

Except for that one sword in the far corner. Crowley could feel it’s foul aura radiating from all the way across the room, and he felt certain he would smell the dried blood on it if he came any closer. Which he was not going to do, thank you very much.

He had already seen two-thirds of the exhibit by the time he spotted Aziraphale and the lady again, a few swords over, still deep in conversation. Which is probably why he did not notice The Sword.

This sword was relatively plain-looking, compared to the rest of the pieces. If you asked a small child to draw a sword it would look like this sword did, probably down to the wonky dent halfway up the blade, which curved the point towards the sky.

Crowley walked past it, mind switching from Foul-sword-must-avoid to _Aziraphale_ , and completely skipped over Curvy-and-Innocuous-Sword. Or rather, he tried to walk past it, raising a hand to signal Aziraphale. Instead, he was hit by a wave of Holiness so strong he stumbled sideways.

For one moment Crowley was only surprised, at the attack, at the suddenness of it, at his own oversight, at the fact that it made him trip. The next moment–the longest, eternal moment– all he could feel was an all-consuming _fear_ . It was the fear of being Seen, and Known, and Judged, and found unworthy, and it _burned,_ burned at the same velocity as Falling had, and in return left only the Knowledge that he was inferior, damaged, discarded, unworthy-unworthy- _unworthy_ –

And then it stopped. Like an eclipse, like clouds before the sun, like salvation– like Aziraphale. Aziraphale was standing in front of him. He was sitting on the floor. Crowley did not remember falling down. Nor did he remember why his face felt wet.

Aziraphale was talking to him, but all he could hear was the ringing _unworthy_ , inside his head, in his own voice, too loud even now that the sword was blocked from his view.

“-ley? Dearest? Please hear me, Crowley, please answer me,” Aziraphale was urging. It took a moment (another too-long moment) for Crowley to process the words.

“‘M’okay, Angel,” he murmured, rubbing both hands roughly across his face. Aziraphale’s face was incredibly close to his own, but even if it hadn’t been Crowley would have been able to see Aziraphale’s disbelief at his words clear as day. Being this close, he could also see the worry in those bright eyes.

Aziraphale rose, and gently pulled Crowley up with him, as if he knew Crowley would refuse his help in getting up, and so simply did not ask. Like rays of burning sun trying to poke around a cloud, Crowley could still feel That Sword. It almost seemed to be trying to reach for him, as though it Knew it’s job, as though it would act even without a hand to wield it (and hadn’t it already done exactly that?). Aziraphale escorted him from the exhibit, all the while making sure to stay between Crowley and The Sword. 

Afterwards Crowley wasn’t sure how they’d returned to the bookshop. It certainly hadn’t been in his Bentley, as he had been in no state to drive. Loathe as he was to admit it, even to himself, this stupid sword had affected him more than the Almost-Apocalypse had.

Of course, the Apocalypse didn’t get a chance to blindside them. They’d known it was coming for years. They thought they had a plan, a good plan. Even though they almost failed… _Unworthy-_ it was only a whisper, and Crowley was certain the sword couldn’t reach him; not here, not in his Angel’s home. And yet. _Unworthy-_ he heard, echoing, accusing.

He curled up on the couch Aziraphale usually sat on, ignoring a question he couldn’t process, one that wasn’t important, all he could hear was echoes, echoes, whispers and–

“Crowley!” Two hands on his shoulders, propping him up, forcing him to uncurl his limbs, even just a little. Aziraphale, kneeling before him, on the ground, his eyes wide and _scared._

“Aziraphale,” his voice barely reached a whisper. He tried again: “Angel.” Slightly better, but not much. Crowley unfolded his hands from where they were clenched around his own arms, and took hold of Aziraphale’s elbows, intending to help him up from the floor.

The shaking in his hands apparently did nothing to assuage Aziraphale’s concerns, and as Crowley tried to stand his legs failed him as well. He collapsed back onto the couch.

“Please try to relax, dearest. I don’t quite know what happened, but I’m here, and everything will be alright,” Aziraphale spoke in a tone usually reserved for small animals and crying children. He reached to the side, only letting go of Crowley with one hand. The side table obligingly moved into his range, and Aziraphale took a mug of tea from it. Taking hold of Crowley’s hands he folded them around the mug, warmth seeping into his shaking hands.

Aziraphale kept his hands folding around Crowley’s, and spoke softly: “If you’re feeling up to it I’d love to hear what happened, my love. You seem very affected– but the sword is not near as powerful as mine ever was, and that one wasn’t a problem, right?” A pause. Then: “Was it? Please tell me you didn’t suffer the same way because of my sword, my love, I could never forgive–“ Crowley shook his head violently, almost spilling tea all over himself.

“Thank you, I’m very glad to hear that, my dear,” a small smile crossed Aziraphale’s face, but the concern hadn’t yet left his eyes. Still, that simple smile was enough to bring Crowley back to reality a little more.

“No, angel, yours was fine. This one was–,“ Crowley had to suppress a shudder. “This one was _evil._ Or perhaps too holy, I s’pose. I think it may have felt useless? After so long not being used for anything but ceremony, it wanted to be used,”Crowley could hear himself start rambling, but he couldn’t help it. If he didn’t get the words out now he felt he might never be able to. “It wanted _me_ , to hurt me, to end me– I don’t know. It didn’t say what it was planning. All it said was–“ he choked on the word _unworthy_ unable to say it, unable to do anything but hear those echoes of _terror_ inside his mind.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured. In one move he took back the mug of tea, set it down on the table again and surged up to hug Crowley close.

“You know you’re amazing, right, dearest?” Aziraphale was now speaking firmly, his voice as strong as though the truth of his words were undeniable. It quietened the whispers still in Crowley’s mind. 

“You have helped prevent the End Times, which is a most evil and demonic thing to do, as well as an incredibly clever thing. You have been on this world since the Beginning, and you are here, now, with me,” Aziraphale leaned back slightly, so he could look Crowley in the eyes. “You know that I would never lie, not to you. So please believe me when I say to you: whatever that damned sword said, it was wrong, wrong, and wrong.”

Aziraphale reached up a hand to Crowley’s glasses, then waited for a moment. Waited for permission, or denial. Crowley nodded. Aziraphale took off his glasses, and they looked at each other.

“Will you believe me, Crowley?” he asked, his voice as sincere, and as full of steel as Truth itself. For the second time that day Crowley felt something (someone) See him, and Know him for who he was. Except this time, that someone was Aziraphale. This time, he felt that if he even hinted, if he doubted for even a moment, Aziraphale would move heaven and earth to fix this wrong. He would march to the museum and destroy that blessed sword before Crowley could even ask it, hang the fact that it was a museum piece. All of these things Crowley could read in Aziraphale’s eyes. All that, and the overwhelming, all-consuming _love_ that powered those sentiments. 

...And judging by the frown forming on Aziraphale’s brow, he had been thinking too long, and Aziraphale was about to do exactly that.

“I believe you, angel,” he whispered, and Aziraphale’s frown melted into a smile. “It– it said many things that I know aren’t true. But it’s… It’s very hard to ignore, when it’s things I’ve thought about myself…”

“Oh, my love,” a sadness in Aziraphale’s voice, a sadness that was far too much for Crowley to bear.

“No, it’s alright, angel,” he said, tugging Aziraphale up onto the couch beside him, and hiding his face in the crook of his neck. Aziraphale simply held him close, waiting for him to continue.

“I know that thing was wrong, Hell, I know _I_ was wrong about myself but… It doesn’t get easier to hear. It gets easier to live with, but it’s not easy to have to hear all that– that mess again.”

Aziraphale carded a hand through his hair, and pressed himself close to Crowley. “Will you tell me if you ever think anything like that again? Or if something– something _cursed_ like that sword causes you to– to suffer those thoughts again? Even if it gets easier, I don’t want you to have to deal with it on your own. You don’t have to bear that burden– I would bear it all for you if I could, but even if I cannot, I wish to do as much as I can. To convince you that you are _loved_ , my darling. Until you will never be able to doubt that fact again. And then I’ll say it again, not because I have to, but because I want to. You are so incredibly important to me, and I love you so very, very dearly.”

Crowley nodded, and kept nodding at Aziraphale’s words, even as he felt the patch of jacket underneath his cheek start to grow wet.

Aziraphale didn’t let go, and they stayed like that for a long, long time after that, tangled together upon the bookshop sofa.

**Author's Note:**

> Previously on Swordtember:  
> [Written for the prompt “night”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26329285) you know that trope where two characters are hiding in an alley and then they kiss? Yep. Also they’re in Rome
> 
> Please leave a comment and let me know what you think, I love hearing from you guys!


End file.
